


and there's no remedy

by cherishmartell



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: Especially Emily, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Gen, Grieving, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherishmartell/pseuds/cherishmartell
Summary: “A car forced us off the road.” She says, her words raspy. It feels like she has to prize them free, dig them out with sharp nails.She hears his sharp intake of breath, can almost hear the question she knows is forming.She can’t bear it, can’t bear to hear him ask ifthey’resafe, so she answers, “They killed Leo and...Miguel, they took Cristobal.”What I think might have happened between Perro/Oc and Escorpión/Dzec





	and there's no remedy

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Bolgered for being an incredible beta reader! This fic wouldn't exist without your invaluable insight into Emily's mind! Thank you so much for all of your advice, and your endless patience for my questions! :) 
> 
> The title was taken from a line from Lana Del Rey's 'Dark Paradise'.

Emily stands there for what feels like an eternity, her screams and Cristobal’s wails still ringing in her ears as she watches the brake lights fade into the desert. Maria’s cries barely register as she trembles, the spindly heels of her expensive shoes doing little to keep her aloft.

The lawyer in her, the methodical, exacting part of herself knows that the best course of action is to call for help. Alert her husband and his organization and get as many eyes as possible looking for her son. Tell them every detail about the kidnappers, their car. The longer she waits…fuck, she can’t even consider it. 

But the mother in her struggles with the logic. The emotion that rises up in her threatens to drown out the common sense (makes her want to act now, chase after the monsters that have taken her baby). Just like another time in her life she'd like to forget.

But, just like she did in the aftermath of Mrs. Reyes’ murder, Ez’s arrest, the death of all her dreams, she forces down her fear, her emotions, locks them deep within herself and focuses on the matter at hand. 

And even though it kills her all over again, she turns back to the car...and the body of the man who tried to protect them. Maria is kneeling beside him, praying tremulously as she weeps, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. The oppressive, heavy copper scent is enough to make her want to retch again but she swallows hard, shoves down the nausea as Emily stumbles to the still open passenger door. 

Hasty fingers scrabble over the buttery leather of her seat as she lunges for the phone. It’s stuck between her seat and the console, right where it fell from startled fingers when pavement gave way to rough desert turf. Her fingers shake as she unlocks her phone, brings up her husband’s number from her contact list. 

She inhales deeply as she presses ‘call’ and brings the phone to her ear. It takes an eternity to connect but when it does-

“Did you run into traffic?” The rich timbre of her husband’s voice fills her in, drowning out the crying (Maria’s, the memory of her baby’s) the sharp retort of a gun…the sound the wheels made, spinning against the sand. This cherished bit of normality doesn’t bring comfort. If anything, it makes the situation seem even more nightmarish. 

Her lips part, to answer him, but the shock has caught up with her, forcing her tongue to still and her heart to lurch sickeningly. She stands there in mute horror, furious with her weakness ( _not now not now_ ). Miguel is still talking, still blissfully unaware. He thinks everything is fine and she doesn’t know if she pities or envies him more. 

“I stopped by the office-I thought I'd be late, saying good night to Cristobal. But Mom says I'm the first one here.” 

She’s still mute, but the mention of their son’s name snaps her out of the state she’s fallen into. 

“Em?” His voice is still even, but there's a new note of unease in voice. “Are you still there, sweetheart?” 

“A car forced us off the road.” She says, her words raspy. It feels like she has to prize them free, dig them out with sharp nails.

She hears his sharp intake of breath, can almost hear the question she knows is forming.

She can’t bear it, can’t bear to hear him ask if _they’re_ safe, so she answers, “They killed Leo and...Miguel, they took Cristobal.”

The noise filters through the speakers of her phone. She can hear the strangled groan Miguel tries and fails to muffle.

She’s always known Miguel was an intelligent man, the kind you wanted on your side in times of trouble. 

But she never knew how much until this moment. 

He is silent for a handful of seconds before exploding into action. He tells her to stay on the phone, the edge in his voice the only concession he makes to the pain they both feel. She sits heavily, listening as he gives orders, (hears him argue with Nestor, who counsels him on the danger he could be walking into, promising to go in his place). He has a point, but Emily can’t help but hate him for it. She wants her husband here, needs him to hold her up. 

But she doesn’t interject, digs her nails into the palm of her hands when her gaze begins to wander and waits until she hears the slam of the car door. The questions come, one after the other. 

She’s grateful for it, grateful for the clear, concise patterns, the reliance on facts.

The mother stands reluctantly aside and the lawyer emerges. 

She tells him everything, sparring no detail. She hears him pass along the color of the car, the license plate (or what she was able to make of it), the unsettling masks the kidnappers wore. Her voice wavers, for just a moment, when she tells him that one of the masked individuals seemed to be a **child**. 

_What kind of monsters would do this? Send a child to take ~~rip~~ an infant away from his mother?_

He asks about Maria and she feels a stab of pity for the other woman, who deserves this nightmare even less than she. But she can’t move, can bring herself to move from her rigid vigil to go and comfort her. Instead, she hunches in on herself, her phone clutched in her hand and tries to focus on her husband’s voice. 

Emily told herself that, when she saw Miguel, she'd be able to breathe again. But when the others arrive and her husband lunges from the car, his face a pale mask, she finds that the struggle had only begun. She goes to him, still shaking and unsteady in shoes she should have taken off hours ago. His arms wrapped tight around her waist helps keep her aloft, but the scent of his cologne makes her feel like she's choking. 

It's too _normal_ , after everything and it's unfair. She starts to pull away, parting her lips to say...what, exactly? That she's sorry they took their son instead of her, sorry that she didn't fight harder, do more to keep Cristobal in her arms. They all crowd her tongue, but she never gets a chance to say them. 

Miguel angles his face towards her, his features in shadow. 

“We'll find him, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice low, soothing. “I promise you, I will bring our son home.” 

She nods because what else can she do? She clutches his hand in one of hers, her phone in the other, like a lifeline as they walk back to the SUV closest to them. He opens the door for her, waits until she's comfortable before shutting the door. It's all so expected, so routine that she feels tears burn at her eyes. 

_Not now,_ she thinks swallowing hard as she runs shaking fingers through her hair. It catches on her ring, but the short burst of pain doesn’t bring clarity, doesn’t chase away the grief that rolls in like a storm. 

Nestor joins her and Miguel in the back, asking her to run through the night’s events (like she could _ever_ forget them) one more time. It helps cut through the fog, gives her a purpose. She looks him in the eye while she clearly recites every detail, sparring nothing. She can feel Miguel’s hand gently squeeze hers when she gets to the...harder, aspects.

She doesn't look to closely at Miguel. She can't. She's afraid of what she might find. Grief, fear, anger, recrimination...all of what she's feeling, but she can't bear to see, not when she feels like she's going to drown under it. Though Nestor’s pity pierces at her, it's palatable, but only just. 

The ride back seems to take forever. After she's finished talking through the last hour, the men take up the slack. Purposeless, she fiddles with her phone, just to have something to do with her hands. She craves a cigarette, but more than that, she wants Cristobal in her arms, warm and sleepy and safe. 

Miguel and Nestor converse between themselves, with her husband’s number two relaying orders into his phone. 

She tries to focus on what they're saying, but their words are lost, swallowed up by the frantic beat of her pulse and the feeling of unadulterated fear. Logically, she knows what's happening isn't her fault, that she couldn’t keep the night’s events at bay forever, but she’s angry.

She feels betrayed by her own fucking body, feels useless and she fucking hates it. 

She’s lost in her head, furious and terrified and doesn’t realize they’ve arrived home until Miguel gently squeezes her hand. 

“We’re here, _mi vida_ ,” he says. Emily bites down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood and finally looks up. 

He extends his hand to her and all she can do is stare at it, perplexed. 

It’s almost laughable, how badly she’d craved freedom, and now she couldn’t comprehend putting one foot in front of the other. 

If Miguel is impatient, he doesn’t show it. While Nestor hurries into the house, locked in intense conversation with another member of their security team, he stays with her, carefully coaxing her off the expanse of back leather. They hold hands as they make their way up the drive, him altering his strides to match hers. 

Dita is waiting for them on the porch, the lights from the house illuminating the tears cutting down her cheeks. 

Miguel presses a kiss to her temple, whispering something she can’t catch before he’s gone, following Nestor into the house. 

It’s just the two of them out here and she finally allows herself to sob, guttural cries that emerge from deep in her gut, clawing their way up her throat and emerging from her bloodied lips. 

Dita is a mother and she moves instinctively, not giving Emily time to worry, time to explain herself. She pulls her into her arms, cradling her head on her shoulder as she gently strokes her hair, whispering soothing words.

Maybe she just murmurs. It’s hard to make out what she’s saying, over her cries and the ones echoing ( _screaming_ ) inside her head. 

She isn’t sure how long they stay out on the porch, clinging together in the darkness. 

Eventually, though, she buckles under the weight of her grief, her cries tapering off into silent tears as her legs shake. They feel like they’re about to give out on her, causing her to desperately lean on Dita, a move that doesn’t go unnoticed by her mother-in-law.

_“ Vamos, dulce niña.”_ She urges softly, turning them towards the door. 

Emily blinks hard as they abandon the darkness for the brightly lit interior of her home, tripping over the rug. The moment her eyes adjust, she leans down, clawing at the straps of her shoes. Dita stands patiently at her side, ready to catch her should she fall. 

When the buckles give way, she kicks them off, her usual care a distant stranger as she shoves them aside. Dita winces at the careless scrape and edges between her and the expensive heels. 

She raises a hand to Emily’s cheek, gently brushing her thumb over the salt stained skin. Emily doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart about, examining her carefully. Her worry is cloying, but a part of her, for just a moment, relishes this. 

The fragile calm shatters when Dita tries to guide her towards the stairs, where a hot bath, pajamas, and her bed await her. She shakes her head violently and turns ( _like a bath could scrub away the night’s events, like soft blankets can make her forget that her son screams in a stranger’s arms_ ).

No. She won’t be able to rest, not tonight. _Not until Cristobal is home, cradled in her arms._ She wants to be near her husband, hear the developments (reassure herself that everything is being done). 

Her mother-in-law sighs heavily but she refuses to be moved. Dita knows a losing battle when she sees one. She acquiesces quietly, as is her way, and rests her hand on Emily’s back as the two walk to the kitchen. 

The room is awash with noise, with the security team hurrying back and forth; Nestor and Miguel stand in the middle of chaos, their words barely audible. 

Even if she wanted to, she can’t focus on anything, allowing Dita to steer her towards the dinning table. She pulls out a chair, waits for Emily to settle in before gently smoothing a hand over her windblown hair.

“I’ll be back, _mi amour_ , with tea and a blanket” she says, her voice soft, comforting. Emily thinks she can hear the undercurrent of tears but she can’t pull her gaze away from the grain of the table. 

She walks off, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts.

She almost wishes she could call her back. 

Though the noise would be enough to drive any person mad with distraction, it doesn't drown out the sounds that plague her, playing ceaselessly on a loop. 

_A bang. A child’s frightened wail. A mother’s scream, frightened and **furious**._


End file.
